


you're my pepsi-cola, I'm your coca-cola

by laallomri



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Rating for Language, Trans Keith (Voltron), Trans Romelle (Voltron), background Adashi, background romellura, how many times can keith and lance awkwardly say cool: a study by me, well sort of it's not straightforward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-10 16:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20854727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laallomri/pseuds/laallomri
Summary: “Are those Victoria’s Secret?”Keith freezes. He can’t tell if it’s judgmental, or curious, or—what—but he turns, slowly, and faces the boy.He looks normal. Not like he’s going to say something rude about the origin of Keith’s pajama pants.“Yeah,” he says cautiously. “My friend got them but they didn’t fit. They were on clearance so she couldn’t return them, so I use them instead.”(Keith really hopes confirming this isn’t a bad move—)“Aw, man,” the boy says, and Keith only has the barest second to panic before: “My sister likes their pajamas so I was hoping to get them for her for Christmas. But I guess if it was on clearance they might not be selling them anymore.”College AU/(Sort Of) Soulmate AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> these are 2 old commissions that I’ve combined into one fic
> 
> Lance has brown eyes you all know the drill
> 
> incredibly I managed to find a bollywood song that says the romantic couple is pepsi-cola so the title is from the song Chalti Hai Kya 9 se 12 from the movie Judwaa 2

Keith’s soulmate is a girl.  
  
_the universe fucked up_, Romelle writes the first time they communicate, printing outraged sentences in dry-erase marker on their arms. _don’t tell my mom I said fuck_.  
  
Keith snorts. He underlines _fucked up_, then adds, _I think we broke the system_.  
  
The system that he knows only truly serves a specific demographic, thanks to Adam’s rants whenever he sees yet another former high school classmate announce a wedding or a baby on Facebook.  
  
“It’s all for straight cis people,” Adam says, for the dozenth time that month. Keith is nodding, extra hard now that he’s thirteen and has communicated with his soulmate. Shiro is doing his usual evening routine of lie-on-the-couch-with-his-head-in-Adam’s-lap-while-fondly-listening-to-him-complain.  
  
“ ‘Soulmates,”” Adam goes on, making a face and making air quotes. “How the fuck is some arbitrary universe gonna decide what gender you are and what gender you end up with? Or that you have to end up with someone at all? Brown women are told they’re useless unless they get married by both society _and_ the fucking universe! And what if you’re trans? And how it affects bi people! Do you know people have said that my khala is really straight because her soulmate’s always been a man? Fuck _off_.”  
  
Keith does, in fact, know that people have said that about Adam’s aunt, because he always brings up this point during his rants. But he doesn’t mind, because Adam’s cooking and hugs and homework help more than make up for the repetitiveness of his complaining.  
  
“Romelle says we broke the system twice,” Keith pipes up. He’s sitting on the floor, cuddling with Kosmo, who’s grown quite a bit since they adopted them a few months ago. “Cause she’s trans, too.”  
  
“See!” Adam rages, then goes on for another five minutes without stopping.  
  
In the end, it’s not a total disaster. Romelle is nice, and likes drawing, and reads a lot of the same books as Keith. Plus it’s nice to have someone to talk to about being trans; Shiro and Adam are wholeheartedly supportive, but it’s different to have someone who understands what he is dealing with on a personal level.  
  
Maybe Keith and Romelle aren’t soulmates, but they’re friends. Best friends, to the point that Keith thinks of Romelle as a sister, in the way that Shiro is his brother.  
  
(but there is—a part of him—a very, very small part, a part that melts when he sneakily reads romance novels, a part that he tries to squash—that feels horribly, crushingly disappointed. he—also wants—wants someone to hold hands with and make dinner with and do dumb shit with, like run up the down escalators. he—wants—and for so many people, that want is guaranteed to be fulfilled—but for him, for people like him, he’ll have to try so much harder to find it)  
  
(but then he remembers that Shiro’s soulmate turned out to be a dick, and Adam’s soulmate is just his friend, and Shiro and Adam found each other and love each other and will marry each other next year. so maybe it’s not so hopeless)

.^.  
  
During Keith’s college orientation, his dorm’s resident head told him, with the wide-eyed, overenthusiastic look of everyone who deals with incoming students, that his first semester of college would be busy and exciting and interesting.  
  
It is busy, as the stack of books on his desk indicate. It is exciting, if starting a small fire in the microwave while reheating breadsticks counts as exciting and not disastrous. But interesting? Only two things happen during his first semester that count as interesting.  
  
The first interesting thing: Romelle gets a girlfriend. Her name is Allura, and she lives in the off-campus dorm like Romelle and Keith do. She’s funny and smart and thinks Keith’s motorbike is cool and not a death trap like Romelle keeps insisting that it is. Keith likes her, and he likes seeing Romelle happy with her, but sometimes—just sometimes—sometimes he gets a little lonely. Romelle spends so much time with Allura now, and while they do invite him to sit with them in the dining hall and at the library for study sessions, he always feels like he’s intruding, and he doesn’t want them to pity him, and—and—and—  
  
(_selfish_, his mind whispers furiously. _you should be happy for her_)  
  
(he is happy for her—he _is_—but he doesn’t have any other friends yet—and yes, he likes being alone, tends to prefer it anyway—but it’s hard to be alone when he knows that when he _does_ want company, it’s not quite so easy to get anymore)  
  
The second interesting thing isn’t a thing so much as a person; a person whom Keith meets, of all times, at three twenty-six AM in the basement of his dorm.  
  
He’s just submitted his last paper of finals week; his hands are cramped from typing and his back is sore from being hunched over his laptop for the past six hours. As much as he would love to pass out until he has to leave for the bus to take him back home, there’s a tall pile of laundry waiting to be washed and packed.  
  
For a moment he considers packing them in plastic bags and just stuffing those into his suitcase, but then he remembers how fucking miserable the trek from Shiro and Adam’s apartment to the laundromat is, and he remembers how the forecast for the next week is one long stretch of freezing rain, so he shoves aside his laptop, gets up from his bed, cracks his back in about sixteen separate places, and starts cramming his clothes into his laundry bag.  
  
It’s not until he’s halfway down the hall that he realizes what he’s wearing: pink-heart-patterned pajama pants (from Romelle), a t-shirt with a swirly-eyed hippo on the front above the words HIPPO-NOTISM (a joke gift from Shiro, though the joke’s really on him because Keith wears it constantly), and his hair half escaped from the tie he used to keep it out of his face while he typed.  
  
He doesn’t bother going back to change. People have looked way weirder in this dorm, and almost everyone else has gone home already, since most people’s finals finished yesterday. Plus he’s pretty much out of clothes, and it’s not like he’s trying to impress anyone at three in the fucking morning. There isn’t gonna be anyone in the laundry room.  
  
Except—  
  
(except)  
  
—except he walks down to the basement, and pushes open the door to the laundry room, and hauls his bag and bottle of detergent over to the nearest washing machine, and as he plops the bottle atop the machine he hears a way-too-cheerful-for-three-AM voice go, “Hi!”  
  
Keith jolts at the sound and bangs his knee on the machine. He winces, dropping his laundry bag to rub at the bruise.  
  
“Oh shit,” the voice says, sounding concerned. “You okay, man?”  
  
Keith looks over. There are two tables in the back of the laundry room for anyone who wants to wait instead of making multiple trips back and forth from their room. Usually Keith doesn’t pay much attention to them, but he has a feeling he’s been missing out by not looking in that corner of the room, because _holy fucking shit_ that guy is cute.  
  
Cute, and blinking at Keith with a mixture of confusion and worry. Keith blinks back, and he takes in curly brown hair and big hands and a neat set of blue pajamas, and all of a sudden Keith is uncomfortably aware of his dumb pants and his dumb t-shirt and his shitty hair and—wait, fuck, did he ask Keith a question?  
  
(_answer him, you clown_, his mind chides, and he would, but he can’t remember what he’s supposed to be answering to. maybe it was the greeting? that would make sense, right?)  
  
“Hi,” he says finally.  
  
The boy blinks again, and right then is when Keith’s brain decides to helpfully remind him that the most recent statement was not _hi_ but _you okay_, and maybe he should just put himself in the washing machine instead of his clothes.  
  
“I mean, yes,” he says hurriedly. “I’m—fine. I’m okay! I mean—”  
  
(_shut up_, his mind hisses, and god what a mess—)  
  
“—my knee is fine,” he finishes lamely.  
  
There’s a pause. Keith turns to the machine and starts shoving his clothes into it, ignoring Adam’s spectre in the back of his head, who’s giving him dire warnings about improper laundry technique. He pours in some detergent, slams the lid shut, enters the quarters, and is fully prepared to leave the laundry room and pretend this interaction never happened when:  
  
“Are those Victoria’s Secret?”  
  
Keith freezes. He can’t tell if it’s judgmental, or curious, or—what—but he turns, slowly, and faces the boy.  
  
He looks normal. Not like he’s going to say something rude about the origin of Keith’s pajama pants.  
  
“Yeah,” he says cautiously. “My friend got them but they didn’t fit. They were on clearance so she couldn’t return them, so I use them instead.”  
  
(Keith really hopes confirming this isn’t a bad move—)  
  
“Aw, man,” the boy says, and Keith only has the barest second to panic before: “My sister likes their pajamas so I was hoping to get them for her for Christmas. But I guess if it was on clearance they might not be selling them anymore.”  
  
(oh)  
  
Keith breathes again. “They might restock or something,” he says.  
  
“Hopefully,” the boy says, then shrugs. “Well, thanks anyway.”  
  
Keith nods, without really knowing why, then turns to the door. The washing machine thumps loudly, mixing with the hum of the dryer the boy is using, and it occurs to Keith that he’ll go all the way to the fourth floor just to come back in less than thirty minutes, and the elevator is out of order, and he’s still wearing his binder so stairs are really not his friend right now, and the sensible thing to do would be to stay in the laundry room until it’s time for the dryer.  
  
(_sure_, says another, less deceitful part of his mind. _that’s why you’re staying. suuure_)  
  
He turns again, abruptly, then marches over to the table beside the boy’s and sits down, pulling out his phone to pretend like he’s looking at it and not him.  
  
(curly brown hair and big hands and a neat set of blue pajamas, and now that he’s closer he can see, in the painfully fluorescent light of the laundry room, that the boy has lots of freckles, and bright brown eyes, and wow his skin looks really soft, Romelle would definitely want to know what his skincare routine is—)  
  
As if summoned by the thought of her, pink lines appear on Keith’s forearm.  
  
_make sure u take off ur binder soon!!_  
  
He smiles at her concern, then looks up to see—the boy staring at him?  
  
Keith’s brow furrows. The boy looks away quickly, then down at his phone. He rubs his thumb over as if scrolling through something, though from this angle Keith can see that it’s on the lockscreen. The boy peeks at him out of the corner of his eye, and—  
  
(oh)  
  
(maybe he’s not the only one staring)  
  
“Are you a freshman?” Keith asks.  
  
The boy puts down his phone. “Yeah!” he says. “Are you?”  
  
Keith nods. “What’s your major?”  
  
“I’m not sure yet,” the boy says, “but something to do with marine biology or aerospace engineering. Or both. Or maybe I’ll teach. Or something else entirely.” He laughs, a bit self-consciously. “I want to do a lot of things.”  
  
“That’s cool.”  
  
There’s an awkward pause, and Keith’s mind is whirring as he tries and fails to come up with another question, and he’s wondering if he should just go back to pretending to look at his phone when:  
  
“I saw a girl wearing a blanket as a hijab earlier,” the boy says, “in the lounge. It looked very comfortable.”  
  
Keith can do this. God knows how many weird as fuck stuff he’s seen on campus in the past semester.  
  
“One time someone came to one of my classes in pajamas and a cape,” he says, “and he pulled out an entire container of bacon and ate it during the lecture. It was four in the afternoon.”  
  
The boy snorts. “Last week someone came to class in a tiger costume.”  
  
Keith thinks for a moment. “Your classmate is a furry?”  
  
“No,” the boy says, with horror, and Keith laughs. “God, that reminds me, once I was coming back from the dining hall and…”  
  
(they talk)  
  
(and talk)  
  
(and _talk_)  
  
(and Keith is startled, because he does not usually talk, does not like to talk unless it’s someone he knows well, but this boy is so warm, and so funny, and so easy to talk to, and Keith feels something soft and shy and hopeful tug at the pit of his stomach—)  
  
They talk all the way through Keith’s washer cycle. The machine stops at the same time as the dryer Lance is using, so they get up in unison to transfer and collect their clothes. The conversation lulls as they do so, but it feels more comfortable than awkward, and Keith wonders if it’s weird to want to continue this, wonders if the boy would maybe want to talk sometime and someplace else other than four AM in a laundry room, wonders if it would be okay to—ask—ask what floor he’s on, or what time he usually studies, or maybe—his number—  
  
—so he closes the lid of the dryer, and inserts the quarters, and starts the machine, and turns to the boy, and opens his mouth, and he thinks something very dumb might come out, something like _can we be friends_ or _if I keep doing laundry at this time will I see you here_ or _you have a nice smile_, but then—  
  
—the boy sets down his basket of fresh laundry and shoves up the sleeve of his shirt—  
  
—and looks down at his forearm—  
  
—and Keith sees black ink spread over his skin, and he looks down and sees girl’s clothing piled in the laundry basket, and—oh.  
  
(oh)  
  
Keith snaps his mouth shut.  
  
(stupid. it’s stupid, it’s _stupid_, it’s so stupid, but this boy is so warm, and so funny, and so easy to talk to, and something soft and shy and hopeful tugged at Keith’s stomach—but now it’s cold, and sharp, and embarrassed, because of course, of _course_, he is stupid and his soft shy hope is stupid and this whole situation is just—stupid)  
  
The boy scans the message on his arm, but doesn’t say anything. Keith isn’t quite sure how he finds his voice through the shouts of _stupid_ echoing in his head, but somehow he manages it.  
  
“Um—is your soulmate okay?”  
  
“Yeah.” The boy pulls his sleeve back down. “I’m doing some of her laundry along with mine, so she was just letting me know that when I drop off her clothes it’s okay to come right into her room instead of knocking.”  
  
Keith is puzzled. “Knocking?”  
  
The boy rolls his eyes. “Her girlfriend’s with her right now,” he says, and oh, oh, fucking _oh_— “It’s all PG but they’re kinda shy about cuddling in front of other people so I banished myself to the laundry room until they’re done.”  
  
(soft and shy and hopeful and cold and sharp and embarrassed and soft and shy and hopeful again—)  
  
Keith thinks the emotional rollercoaster of the past two minutes might give him whiplash.  
  
“Ah” is all he says, then, “Uh—my soulmate’s got a girlfriend, too.”  
  
“Oh,” the boy says. “Cool.”  
  
For a moment they just stare at each other. Keith’s mind is scrambling to come up with words, to force _can I get your number_ up his throat and out of his mouth, but then—  
  
“Do you think it’d be okay if I sit by you next semester?”  
  
What?  
  
“What?” Keith says aloud.  
  
“Bio 102,” the boy says. His tone makes it sound like it should be a clarification but it just bewilders Keith further. “You’re taking the second class in the sequence too, right? Most people do, anyway.” He sticks his hands in his pajama pockets self-consciously. “I didn’t wanna bother you but I thought maybe now—”  
  
“Wait,” Keith interrupts, still confused. “We have bio together?”  
  
The range of emotions that flit across the boy’s face is impressive. “You don’t _know_?” he says incredulously.  
  
“It’s a big lecture,” Keith offers weakly.  
  
The boy makes an indignant noise. “I said hi to you four different times! I sat in front of you twice and in the same row as you every class for three weeks!”  
  
(later Keith will wonder why the boy has these stats memorized)  
  
(but right now he is confused, and guilty, and racking his brain, and he—vaguely remembers—a glimpse of curly brown hair and the ring of a cheerful voice—but he never paid attention because—)  
  
“Sorry,” he says. “I prefer to take notes by hand so I can’t really look around much or I’ll miss what’s on the slide.”  
  
“I know,” the boy says, and Keith can hear the unspoken _cause unlike you, I actually pay attention to the people around me_. “You’re always writing super fast.” He slumps a little. “Well, it’s whatever. Sorry I bothered you.”  
  
He picks up the laundry basket, and starts to turn away, and he’s _leaving_, but he can’t leave, not when Keith still doesn’t know if he needs to alter his entire schedule to make sure he always does his laundry at this hour just so he can talk to him—  
  
“Wait!”  
  
The boy turns back to him. He eyes Keith warily, and now is really the worst time to notice just how _bright_ his eyes are, the worst time to notice how nice it would be to just stare into them—  
  
Keith clears his throat.  
  
“I’d—be cool with that,” he says. “You sitting with me, I mean. In—in class.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember you, but maybe we can introduce ourselves now?”  
  
The boy’s gaze flicks from Keith’s hand, to Keith’s face, back to his hand. He redoubles his grip on the laundry basket with one hand, balancing the basket on one hip, then extends his other hand to shake Keith’s.  
  
“The name’s Lance,” he says, like a character in a spy movie.  
  
“Lance,” Keith repeats, and oh, he likes the sound of it, likes the way Lance’s bright eyes brighten further as he says it. “Hi, Lance. I’m Keith.”


	2. Chapter 2

Keith has a date.  
  
“It is not a date,” he says, when it comes up during a Skype call to Shiro and Adam. “It's just—hanging out with Lance.”  
  
“Alone,” Shiro adds.  
  
“At an ice cream shop,” Adam chimes in.  
  
“Exactly!” Keith says, throwing up his hands as if to say _see_? “Ice cream is not a date! It's not—it's not romantic enough.” He drops his hands. “And we won't be alone. Romelle and Allura are coming too.”  
  
“Double date,” Shiro says promptly.  
  
There's a surreptitious _smack_. Keith strongly suspects Adam high fived Shiro out of frame.  
  
“It is not,” he says firmly, scowling. “It's a—it's a regular date for them and we're just third-wheeling.”  
  
Shiro raises an eyebrow. “You'd rather admit to third-wheeling your friends than admit you're going on a date?”  
  
Keith opens his mouth, then closes it.  
  
“I,” he says, then, as Shiro starts snickering, “Shut _up_, I'm hanging up—”  
  
He does not hang up, but he does glare at Shiro for the next ten seconds without speaking. It makes no difference—Keith learned long ago that one of Shiro's many superpowers is resistance to all of Keith's attempts at intimidation—but it makes him feel better to do it anyway.  
  
“How did you even find out about this?” he asks.  
  
“Romelle told us,” Adam says.  
  
Keith frowns.  
  
“She meant well,” Adam soothes. “And really, we're glad you're going out with him! Platonically or romantically,” he adds hastily, as Keith opens his mouth. “Either way. I'm glad you're gonna spend time with someone outside of campus or your dorm.”  
  
“I spend time with Romelle,” Keith mumbles.  
  
“Other friends are good, too,” Shiro says. “And Lance seems nice.”  
  
Lance _is_ nice. He's annoying, and talkative, and demands to see all of Keith's grades as soon as they get them so he can either pout or boast, but he's—nice. Really nice. He lets Keith look at his typed notes if Keith can't write his own fast enough before the professor changes slides, and he saves extra cupcakes for Keith on the days the dining hall has chocolate ones, and he didn't laugh when he found Keith's super secret stash of romance novels hidden behind the textbooks in his dorm room.  
  
(he's also—cute)  
  
(really cute)  
  
(like holy fucking _shit_ he’s cute, how can someone's smile be so _bright_, how can someone's eyes sparkle so _much_, how someone's skin look so fucking _soft_—)  
  
“—say hi to Kosmo?”  
  
Keith blinks. Shiro is looking at him expectantly.  
  
“Yeah,” he says automatically, and the rest of the call is taken up with trying to keep Kosmo from hurting themself in their efforts to crash through the laptop to get to Keith.  
  
At length they hang up. Keith closes his laptop, hops off his bed, and grabs a black marker from his backpack.  
  
_why did you tell them_, he writes on his forearm.  
  
He waits. Half a minute later appears beneath it, in green marker: :)))  
  
He rolls his eyes, though a surge of fondness runs through him at the familiarity of Romelle's response.  
  
_I hate you_  
  
_I love u too!!!!!_  
  
Keith rolls his eyes, caps the marker, and throws it back in the backpack. He flops onto his bed again and stares at the ceiling.  
  
Why _doesn't_ he want to admit this might be a date?  
  
(_because it's not_, says one part of his mind firmly)  
  
(_because you're a coward_, says another part, quick and smug and sounding far too much like Shiro. _because if you think it is, and it's not, then you'll feel dumb. because if it is, and it goes badly, then Lance won't share his notes with you anymore, or save cupcakes for you anymore, or listen to you talk about romance novels anymore, or_—)  
  
"Shut up," Keith says aloud, fiercely.  
  
This isn't a date. Romelle said she and Allura were going to the new ice cream shop in the neighborhood, and asked if they would like to come, and Lance said he didn’t want to third-wheel on their date, but the girls insisted he should come, and Keith said _I’ll come too_, but Lance said he didn't want to spend money so close to summer break, so Keith said _I can pay for you then, it’s no big deal_, and Allura elbowed Romelle and teased her about not being so chivalrous for _her_, and—  
  
Oh.  
  
Keith sits up.  
  
(oh)  
  
(if you offer to pay for someone—)  
  
(_why won't you pay for me_, Allura said, _where has your sense of chivalry gone_)  
  
(_we're old and jaded_, Romelle said, with an affected strain of tragedy in her voice. _six months has made me grow complacent in our love_)  
  
(is this—)  
  
(this is—)  
  
“This is a fucking date,” Keith says, stunned, then falls back onto his pillow and tries not to panic.

.^.  
  
Keith panics.  
  
Not right away. He manages to hold off until the worst possible time for it: Saturday evening, fifteen minutes before he's supposed to go to the dorm lobby to meet the others so they can walk to the ice cream shop.  
  
He doesn't want to call Shiro—he doesn't think he can handle any smug sly looks from him right now—so he sits on his bed and calls Adam instead.  
  
“Haan, bol,” Adam answers. His tone is absent; Keith thinks he might be grading papers.  
  
“I'm going on a date,” Keith says in a rush.  
  
There's a pause.  
  
“Okay,” Adam says, and god, Keith has never been more grateful for the mildness of his temperament as he is in this moment. “What do you need?”  
  
“I don't know,” Keith says. “I just—I don't know if it's a date? It might be. I think so. But it might not be.”  
  
Adam exhales. Keith can picture him: cross-legged on the couch, a stack of ungraded papers on the coffee table and a stack of graded papers to his left, glasses sliding down his nose and purple ink on his fingers. He wishes he could be there, wishes he could lean against Adam's shoulder and make fun of him for using purple ink to grade instead of the usual red, wishes he could get a hug and in-person reassurance that he isn't going to fuck this up.  
  
But he can't, so he inhales, exhales, tries to listen as Adam says, “Does it matter?”  
  
Keith blinks. “What?”  
  
“Does it matter,” Adam repeats. “Does it matter if it's a date or not. Will you act different if it is or isn't?”  
  
Keith's brow furrows. He leans back against the wall, pressing the phone tighter to his ear as if it will force the meaning into his brain. “I don't understand.”  
  
“Do you know how our first date went?”  
  
“Yeah,” Keith says. “You and Shiro went to a movie and then went stargazing.”  
  
“That was our second date,” Adam says dryly. “Takashi doesn't tell people about the first one because he’s embarrassed.”  
  
“Embarrassed?”  
  
“At the time he didn’t know if it was as a date or not,” Adam clarifies.  
  
Oh, Keith thinks, then, aloud, “_Oh_.”  
  
“Yeah,” Adam says, sounding even more amused. “I had a bunch of errands downtown, got held up til eight, and couldn't take the train back home because of a mechanical issue on the track. So I called Takashi and he brought his bike to pick me up so I wouldn't have to wait two more hours to get back to the dorms. But I hadn't eaten yet so we drove around for a while looking for food, then got dessert, then went up to the roof of an abandoned warehouse and looked at the stars. Then we drove back to our dorms, and right before we parted ways Takashi took off his helmet and had the _dumbest_ helmet hair, so I told him that, and he dropped the helmet and kissed me.”  
  
Keith snorts.  
  
“Yeah, exactly,” Adam says. “That's why he doesn't tell people about it. But you see, it wasn't a date, because it didn't really start off with romantic intentions. But it wasn't _not_ a date either, because we both liked each other and he kissed me at the end of it. But it doesn't matter, because we both acted like we always did around each other, and it was up to us to determine what exactly it was.”  
  
“I think I get it,” Keith says.  
  
“Good.”  
  
“If Lance kisses me at the end of our ice cream trip,” Keith goes on, and wow, that's a thought—“then it's a date.”  
  
A pause.  
  
“Well, that might be waiting for _too_ direct of a sign,” Adam says, and Keith can hear the suppressed laugh in his voice. “You could kiss him first, too. Though if you're not sure how he'll react, maybe ask first. Takashi and me had more history before our first kiss than you and Lance do, so don't copy his method when it comes to that.”  
  
Something flutters in Keith's stomach, low and light and dizzying.  
  
“Okay,” he says. “Um. Thanks.”  
  
“No problem,” Adam replies. “Have fun. Be safe.”  
  
“I will,” Keith says. “Bye.”  
  
“Bye.”  
  
Keith hangs up. He stares at his phone for a few seconds, then takes a deep breath, hops off his bed, and heads out.

.^.  
  
It isn't a date.  
  
It isn't a date, because as Keith exits the stairwell into the dorm lobby, Lance beams brightly at him like he always does, and says “Hey, man!” like he always does, and has his hands in his jeans pockets as he always does.  
  
It isn't a date, because as Keith says hello back he notices the rest of Lance's outfit, notices the usual sneakers, and a red long-sleeved shirt, and curly hair that sticks up in the back, and why would he look like this, if it were a date?  
  
(_you think he looks nice no matter what he's wearing_, part of his mind points out)  
  
He tells it to shut up, though it's ruined a moment later when he says, “I like your shirt.”  
  
Lance blinks. For a second there's an odd expression on his face, too quick for Keith to identify.  
  
“Oh thanks,” he says. He fidgets with the hem. “My abuelita gave it to me for Christmas but in all this time I’ve only worn it twice. I don't wear red much.”  
  
_It's a good color on you_, Keith wants to say, but that would sound—absurd—so he just makes a hmm sound, the same one Adam makes whenever Shiro says something that he doesn’t know how to respond to.  
  
“She says it makes my skin pop,” Lance goes on, still fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “I don't know, though. I think yellow looks better.”  
  
_Both look nice_, Keith wants to say, but that would sound—ridiculous—so he says, “Both work.”  
  
Lance blinks again. He stops fiddling with the hem, beams, and says, “Thanks! Raquel said so too when I called her earlier.”  
  
They talk for a little while, about their bio final coming up and the weird spaghetti the dining hall had the previous night (“was it pesto?” Lance asks, his expression somewhere between disgust and bewilderment. “Was it spinach? Green dye? Some combination of the three? Was it _poison_?”), but twenty minutes past their agreed meeting time, Allura and Romelle still haven’t shown up.  
  
“Did they forget?” Keith wonders. He pushes up the sleeve of his hoodie, frowning, and spots green ink on his forearm. “Oh.”  
  
“What’s wrong?” Lance asks.  
  
Keith shows him the message: _sorry but we can’t come! allura’s got really bad cramps and she’s out of medicine_  
  
“Should we stay?” Lance asks. “Will she be okay?”  
  
Keith pulls out his red pen from his back pocket. _I have some excedrin in my room I can give to her. we can go once it’s kicked in. or we can go some other day_  
  
_thank u!!!!! she says she wants to just lie down. but she says you two should still go bc she wants ice cream and the shop sells pints_  
  
“The princess has spoken!” Lance says, peering at Romelle’s last message. “We will be her valiant knights and fetch her ice cream.”  
  
Lance takes the pen from Keith to write jokes and draw doodles on his arm—“it makes her laugh,” he explains, when Keith furrows his brow at him, “distracts her from the pain a bit”—while Keith goes upstairs. He puts his bottle of Excedrin, a heat pad, and some cookies into a bag, then heads down the hall and upstairs to Allura’s room. Romelle answers his knock, looking equal parts worried and relieved.  
  
“You’re a hero,” she declares, taking the bag.  
  
Over her shoulder he can see Allura lying on the bed, wearing sweatpants and that annoyed miserable expression Keith recognizes from his own bad cramps days.  
  
“Godspeed,” Keith says solemnly.  
  
Allura snorts. “I don’t think even God can help me now,” she says. “But thank you.”  
  
“Check your arm,” Keith tells her. “I hope you feel better.”  
  
She glances at her left forearm and smiles at whatever Lance wrote. Keith waves, pretends he can’t see the cash Romelle tries to give him for the ice cream pints he’ll get for her and Allura, then heads back downstairs.

.^.  
  
So—it is a date.  
  
It is a date, because he and Lance are—alone—and they’ve been alone before, at the library and in the dining hall and in their dorm rooms, but for some reason this alone feels different from those alones, feels like it should _mean_ something.  
  
When Keith goes back into the lobby he finds Lance leaning against the front desk, chatting with the clerk on duty today.  
  
“I gotta say, Muriel,” he says, winking, “those earrings are stellar. Absolutely out of this world. Really make your eyes pop.”  
  
Muriel, who is in her late fifties and showed Keith pictures of her grandchildren the first time he picked up the box of cookies Adam sends him every month, rolls the aforementioned eyes and chuckles.  
  
“You remind me of Lalita,” she says. Keith doesn’t know who that is, but Lance nods as if he’s acquainted with her. “She always flirted with puns, too.”  
  
“Did it work?” Lance asks, but Keith is confused, because—puns?  
  
He looks at Muriel’s earrings. The left one is a star, the right one a planet. Planets—stars—stellar—out of this world—  
  
“Ha!” he bursts out.  
  
Lance and Muriel both blink at him.  
  
“Because—” Keith’s neck suddenly feels hot. Why the fuck did he laugh so late, what the fuck is he doing, just stop fucking talking— “Because—the—I get it.”  
  
He clears his throat and sticks his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. Muriel is smiling for some reason, though Keith hardly notices it, because Lance grins at him. It’s his big delighted grin, the one he always has when Keith laughs at his jokes.  
  
“Yeah, man!” he says. He pushes off Muriel’s desk and drums his fingers on it, _rap-rap-rap_. “Always a pleasure talking to you, my lady. The highlight of my day.”  
  
Muriel rolls her eyes again and waves them off fondly. Keith follows Lance out of the double doors of the dorm and down the street. The sun is sinking below the horizon, so the twenty-minute walk to the ice cream shop is much cooler than it would have been only an hour before. It makes it a far more pleasant experience for Keith, who’s wearing his usual hoodie-over-binder combo; so much more pleasant, in fact, that he wonders if Lance, who picked the time they would all meet in the lobby, chose it with Keith’s comfort in mind.  
  
He doesn’t know for sure—and he doesn’t want to ask—but there’s a quiet happiness unfurling in his chest at the thought of it.  
  
They’ve been walking in silence for a few minutes. It’s a contented silence, but the happiness in Keith’s chest makes him want to speak.  
  
(_then say something_, his mind whispers. _something—nice_)  
  
(_that shirt really does look good on you_, he could say, or _your hair looks extra curly today_, or _it’s cool that you drew all that stuff on your arm to make Allura laugh_, or—)  
  
“I didn’t know you were into older women,” he says.  
  
(_idiot_¸ his mind hisses, _all your options and you go with the fucking joke, what a fucking coward_—)  
  
Lance snorts, but he recovers quickly.  
  
“Oh yeah,” he says, with feigned seriousness. “I’ve been in love with her for months.” He gives Keith a sideways look. “Why do you ask? You jealous or something?”  
  
“Of course,” Keith deadpans. “I’m jealous of the fifty-eight year old grandma who gives us our mail and checks in visitors. How could I possibly compete with her?”  
  
For a moment it’s quiet. Keith’s neck feels hot again all of a sudden, far too hot for how cool and windy it is now that the sun is mostly set. The neighborhood around them is pretty, full of old houses and flowers in front lawns and big trees lining the sidewalks, but at sunset it looks like something out of a storybook, backlit by sharp orange rays fading into a dark blue sky.  
  
“Are you actually in the running?” Lance asks finally.  
  
(_I’m not_, part of Keith’s mind whispers)  
  
(_aren’t you_? says another part, and he thinks of _this is a fucking date_ and _I’m going on a date_ and Adam’s downtown errands turning into Shiro kissing him and fuck he needs to deflect—)  
  
He looks round and spots a white cat sitting smack in the middle of a flower garden in front of a house.  
  
“Look at that cat,” he says, pointing.  
  
Lance looks at the cat. The cat does not deign to acknowledge them, but the distraction works, because Lance says she reminds him of his brother’s new cat, and discussion of family pets fills the rest of their walk to the ice cream shop, and that’s—good.  
  
(_bad_, his mind whispers)  
  
(_coward_, it says next, and will it _please_ shut up—)  
  
The ice cream shop is small and sandwiched in a long row of shops and restaurants in the northern part of the neighborhood. The lettering on the right window is purple and polka-dotted and reads DOTTIE’S. Keith can’t decide if he’s pleased with the pun or exasperated with the lack of creativity.  
  
Lance opens the door. A bell jangles above their heads.  
  
“After you, sir,” he says, waving a hand.  
  
Keith enters. The interior of the shop is like an explosion of polka-dots: yellow polka-dot walls, pink polka-dot chairs, blue polka-dot tables, silver polka-dot lamps hanging from the ceiling. The cups are polka-dot (green), as are the napkins (orange), and even the headings on the blackboard menu on the wall behind the cashier (red).  
  
“What the fuck,” Keith says.  
  
“It’s cute,” Lance says.

They walk over to the display cases of ice cream. The borders of the labels on each container are polka-dotted, black and white. It takes them a while to settle on flavors—Lance manages to get six different samples before the woman at the cash register starts giving him Looks—but in the end Lance gets a scoop of dulce de leche and a scoop of blue moon on a waffle cone, while Keith gets two scoops of fudge brownie in a waffle cup.  
  
“Boring,” Lance says, as the employee scoops out Keith’s ice cream.  
  
“Weird,” Keith shoots back, wrinkling his nose at the scoops on Lance’s cone. “The fuck is blue moon, anyway?”  
  
Lance shrugs. “It’s blue,” he says, as if that’s all he needs to know. “Plus it kinda tasted like marshmallows melted on froot loops.”  
  
“_What_,” says Keith, aghast, but before he can say anything further the employee hands him his waffle cup and rings up the total.  
  
Keith pays for their ice creams. They grab some napkins and a spoon and walk to a table at the back of the shop, close to the freezer of ice cream pints. There are only two other tables occupied right now: one with a father and child and one with a couple sharing a giant sundae in a bowl marked with a gold polka-dot letter S. Keith frowns at it, then looks at the menu and sees SOULMATE SUNDAE in one corner.  
  
“Do you think they sell those to anyone?” he asks, taking a spoon of his own ice cream. “Or just soulmates?”  
  
Lance follows his line of vision. “I don’t think they can ban someone from buying a sundae,” he says. “But maybe it’s discounted for soulmates or something.” He pauses for a second to lick up a line of blue moon melting down the cone. “Why, did you want to try it?”  
  
“No,” Keith says, but that’s—a lie—because the thought of sharing ice cream with Lance makes him want to grin stupidly.  
  
(sharing ice cream—)  
  
“Do you want to try some of this?” he blurts.  
  
(his neck is hot again, hot hot hot in this air-conditioned shop as he eats a cold dessert—)  
  
“Sure,” Lance says, and for some reason instead of waiting for Lance to get a spoon, Keith breaks off a piece of his waffle cup, uses it to scoop up some ice cream, and holds it out to Lance.  
  
Lance looks startled, and then there’s—something—in his expression, in his eyes—and why—  
  
(why is Keith’s neck so _hot_—)  
  
Lance leans in and eats the bit of waffle cone and ice cream. For a wild moment Keith feels separate from himself, feels like he’s watching their table from outside of his own body, and he realizes what this must looks like, realizes what the employee and the father and child and the couple would think of this, would think of _them_; realizes how fucking stupid his face must look right now, because there’s something strangely tender about feeding someone—  
  
Lance considers it for a moment. “It’s good,” he says.  
  
Keith feels like he should respond, but he’s still looking at Lance, at Lance’s eyes and Lance’s nose and Lance’s tongue as he licks away some chocolate at the corner of his mouth, and everything his mind is giving him is _not_ something he should say aloud, so he crams some ice cream into his mouth to keep himself busy.  
  
“Next time we should get it,” Lance says suddenly, “me and Allura and you and Romelle. That way we can get the discount, if there is one, and then just swap who shares.”  
  
“Thirdwheeling them is weird enough,” Keith replies. “Do you really want to make it thirdwheeling them while they eat a soulmate sundae?”  
  
“Maybe not thirdwheeling,” Lance mumbles, and he eats some ice cream right after saying it, and Keith knows that move, because he used it not ten seconds ago to keep himself from saying something absurd, and Lance kinda peeks at him through his lashes over the cone, and _oh_—  
  
—and suddenly Keith really, really, _really_ needs to know, because this is dumb, sitting here wondering and doubting and puzzling is _dumb_, so he shoves his spoon into his ice cream, clenches his fists, looks Lance right in the eyes, and says, “Is this a date?”  
  
Lance opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and Keith worries that he’s going to start sputtering, or making jokes, or pretending he doesn’t understand—but then he just inhales, like he’s about to run a marathon, and goes, “Do you want it to be?”  
  
“Yes,” Keith says bluntly.  
  
“Oh,” Lance says, and he sounds a bit faint. “Um, then. Yeah. Yes.”  
  
Keith expected to feel relief at a positive answer, but instead he feels hot again, a strange kind of hot, the kind of hot that comes with discomfort at a compliment, the kind that he knows will fade with time so he can remember the compliment with ease.  
  
“Cool,” he says.  
  
“Cool.”  
  
They go back to their ice cream and eat in silence for a moment. Keith’s other hand is still curled into a fist, his thumb sliding along the side of his index finger over and over. He thinks he should feel happy right now, but he just feels—awkward.  
  
Maybe a distraction would help? He sticks his spoon back into his ice cream and looks at Lance once more.  
  
“Do you wanna hold hands?”  
  
Lance looks like he might explode.  
  
“Uh—” He clears his throat. “Yeah.”  
  
“Cool,” Keith says again.  
  
“Cool.”  
  
There’s a pause, and then Keith unclenches the fist he was stimming with, and Lance reaches across the table and tangles their fingers together, and _oh_ his hand is warm, and soft, and Keith can feel the heat of his discomfort uncurling, fading, smoothening out, until it’s just the barest bit of jitteriness, buried deep beneath familiarity and happiness and the feel of Lance’s hand in his.  
  
But the jitteriness is still there, somewhat, there and determined to sabotage him, so he starts to say something dumb, something like _we’re kind of bad at this_ or _should we start over_—  
  
—but then Lance squeezes his hand, tight, and blurts, “I really like you.”  
  
(and he looks so _nervous_, why does he look nervous, when they are on a date and he is eating ice cream that Keith paid for and they are holding hands, he shouldn’t be nervous—)  
  
(_oh_, Keith’s mind whispers, and he wants to laugh at himself. _if he shouldn’t be nervous then you shouldn’t be either_)  
  
It doesn’t make the jitteriness go away entirely, but it does help him sort of—make sense of it—make it easier to tell it to leave him the fuck alone—and he squeezes Lance’s hand in return, and smiles at him, and says, “I really like you too.”  
  
Lance beams, so bright Keith thinks the sun might have risen again outside.  
  
“Cool,” he says.  
  
“Cool,” Keith replies, and they go back to their ice cream.

.^.  
  
(they keep holding hands as they buy pints for the girls and leave the shop, fingers tangled together as they take the long way back to the dorm, the night breeze cool on their faces and the stars twinkling over their heads and Keith’s heart doing its best to jump out of his chest and into Lance’s arms)

.^.  
  
Romelle is instantly suspicious.  
  
“You look happy,” she says, eyeing Keith as she opens the door and lets the boys into Allura’s room. Allura is sitting up now in bed, pure delight on her face as she reaches for the bagful of ice cream pints Lance holds out to her. “Why do you look happy?”  
  
“I’m a happy guy,” he deadpans.  
  
Romelle rolls her eyes but leaves it alone, shutting the door. She sits on the floor, her back leaned against the side of Allura’s bed, while Keith sits cross-legged across from her and Lance turns the desk chair around to sit in it backwards. Allura passes around the pints—even more fudge brownie and dulce de leche for Keith and Lance, French silk for Romelle, raspberry sorbetto for herself—and the rest of the evening passes in comfortable conversation and attempts to steal spoonfuls of one another’s ice cream.  
  
(“the _germs_,” Lance says with feigned horror, as Allura sticks her spoon in his dulce de leche.  
  
“You once farted in a subway car at the start of a forty-minute trip,” Keith reminds him.  
  
“Okay, but there wasn’t _food_ there!”)  
  
At length they put the half-melted ice cream in Allura’s mini fridge and just talk, until Allura yawns four times while trying to form a single sentence.  
  
“I think,” she says, giving up on her original thought and stretching, “I should try to sleep before my cramps come back.”  
  
Lance looks at Keith and cups his mouth as if sharing a secret. “She’s kicking us out,” he stage-whispers. “We are no longer welcome here.”  
  
Allura throws a pillow at him. He ducks it with a laugh, getting up from the chair.  
  
“C’mon,” he says, and holds out his hand to Keith.  
  
Keith takes it and Lance pulls him to his feet. Keith lets go of his hand, but he can sense Romelle’s eyes on them. He has a feeling there will be a number of questions in all-caps printed on his arm later, but for now all she says is “Good night, you two!”  
  
“Good night,” Lance replies. “We’ll see you all tomorrow.”  
  
Allura flops back onto her pillows. “Thanks again for the ice cream.”  
  
“No problem,” Keith says, and then he’s opening the door, and Lance is smiling at him, and his stomach lurches, and he realizes they will be—alone—as they walk down the hall, as they part ways in the stairwell—and as they leave Allura’s room, and head down said hall, and approach said stairwell, it feels strange—not quite awkward, but not quite comfortable either—and Keith realizes, suddenly, urgently, that he doesn’t want tonight to end like this. He doesn’t know _how_ he wants it to end, but not—not like this.  
  
(_then like what_? his mind whispers, and he goes into the stairwell, and hears Lance say _well—goodnight_, and Keith takes two steps down, and looks back up at Lance, and sees him dart up the stairs quickly, too quick for how tired he must be at this hour, and maybe it’s the angle—Lance’s face in profile, sharp and sweet—or maybe it’s the lighting—fluorescent, but somehow Lance looks gorgeous anyway, and _how_ does he look so good even in the worst lighting possible—or maybe it’s just the evening finally catching up to Keith—everything building up inside him, growing growing growing until he feels like he might burst—but suddenly—)  
  
(—suddenly—)  
  
(—he knows how he wants tonight to end—)  
  
“Hey, Lance!”  
  
Lance pauses at the first landing and looks down at Keith through the railing. “Yeah?”  
  
Keith clenches his fist, unclenches it, exhales—then runs up the stairs, so fast he almost crashes into Lance—and kisses—  
  
—half his mouth?  
  
(_idiot_, his mind hisses, _why the fuck can’t you aim_—)  
  
“Sorry!” Keith bursts out, and he tries to step back, but he—forgets he’s in a stairwell—and the drop of the step behind him startles him—and isn’t it a fantastic way to end tonight, by falling down a flight of stairs and cracking his head—  
  
—except he doesn’t fall, and he doesn’t crack his head, because Lance catches his arm, and pulls him back up to the landing.  
  
“Thanks,” Keith says, a bit breathlessly. He doesn’t know if his heart is hammering because of the shitty kiss or the near fall or the fact that their chests are almost pressed together or some combination of all three. “Um—sorry.”  
  
Lance’s brow crinkles. “Sorry?”  
  
“I meant to kiss your cheek,” Keith explains, “or—or maybe your mouth.” He shakes his head once, hard, frowning. “No, that would be—weird. I’d have to ask first for that. I meant to kiss your cheek.”  
  
(Lance is still holding him, long fingers curled around Keith’s upper arm, and it feels like every nerve there is on fire—)  
  
“Then why don’t you ask?”  
  
Keith blinks. “What?”  
  
Lance’s ears are red, but he looks straight at Keith, eyes big and brown and glittering, and oh—  
  
“Ask,” he says again, and Keith’s heart skips a beat, and _oh_—  
  
Keith swallows. “Can I kiss you?”  
  
“Hell yeah,” Lance replies, and he grins, and Keith can’t believe he’s rolling his eyes before kissing Lance, but—he is—because here he is, rolling his eyes, and here he is, leaning forward, and here he is, pressing his lips to Lance’s with a soft _smek_.  
  
It’s very fast. Keith barely even closes his eyes, and he’s pretty sure Lance just blinked. But it sends a little buzz through him anyway, makes him feel like a fizzy bottle of happiness has been opened inside of his stomach, bubbling and uncontained.  
  
Lance is smiling again, so bright Keith gets the urge to squint.  
  
“Wow,” he says.  
  
“You taste like dulce de leche,” Keith replies, and Lance chuckles, and Keith kisses him again, just because he can.  
  
“Do you wanna come to my room?” Lance asks, when they pull apart. “We can watch a movie.”  
  
“Okay,” Keith says. “I gotta change first though. Romelle will kill me if I don’t take off my binder soon.”  
  
“Right, and you gotta have pajamas for a movie,” Lance says matter-of-factly. He winks. “Wear the Victoria’s Secret ones.”  
  
Keith rolls his eyes and pokes his chest. Lance kisses him, and it’s slower this time, warmer—_ah_, Keith thinks, _ah_—and then he lets go of him, careful so Keith can get his bearings on the stairs, and says, “I’ll see you in ten?”  
  
Keith nods and hurries down to his room. After getting changed he sits on his bed for a moment to let his body adjust to having his binder off. He grabs his phone and pulls up his texts with Adam.  
  
_it was a date_  
  
There’s no reply—he’s probably asleep like the grandpa he is—so Keith pulls out his marker next and scrawls on his forearm.  
  
_I’m really glad you’re my soulmate_  
  
A pause, then:  
  
_is this bc of lance???? did something happen???? hello?????_  
  
Keith snorts and caps the marker, ignoring the continued question marks appearing on his arm, then heads out of his room to go up to Lance’s.  
  
Maybe soulmates don’t quite work the way the universe intended, not for people like them. But they found each other, and they chose each other—and after this, should Keith care about some arbitrary rule, about what people around him assert and assume, about what the universe decided was right and correct for him without taking his own feelings and choices into account?  
  
(_no_, his mind says, firmly)  
  
No, and he knocks on Lance’s door, and sees Lance beaming at him as it opens, sees unruly curls and constellation freckles and bright brown eyes, and he thinks _fuck no_.  
  
(_I like you_, he decides, _because_ I_ like you. not because I am told to, or destined to, or have no other option—but deliberately, carefully, despite knowing there are people who will say I should not. deliberately, carefully, with all the concentration of pouring honey into a tea you are making for your beloved. the careful loving slowness of it, making sure there is not too much or too little, knowing that if you get it right, the end result will be perfect_)  
  
Keith looks at Lance, looks at the unruly curls and the constellation freckles and the bright brown eyes. He looks, and he says, “I like you on purpose,” and Lance’s grin turns dazzling, recklessly, breathtakingly bright, and Keith knows he’s poured the honey into the tea, knows he’s got it right, and he knows—he _knows_, even at this early juncture he can feel it, in his bones in his blood in the ends of his fingers in the curl of his toes when Lance kisses him right here, on the threshold—he knows—

—he knows the end result will be perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is officially dedicated to the little cat I saw sitting in someone’s garden during an evening walk. thank u for giving keith a way to deflect from a conversation
> 
> thank you for reading! tumblr and twitter are both @laallomri, feel free to come talk


End file.
